


Fake Stars, Bloody Knuckles

by mulattafury



Category: Original Work
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 22:53:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4853672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mulattafury/pseuds/mulattafury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rambly little piece about Ganymede Station, Jupiter Academy, and keeping all of your tools cutting sharp and cutting-edge. This is exploratory writing for me, helping me do a little worldbuilding for Snakes & Ladders while giving readers a glimpse into an ordinary day in the characters' lives. Ongoing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Friday lets Roadrunner hear it for unsafe training practices, and Roadrunner tries to get her attention with a top-notch hand massage. Also, we learn a little bit about Derechos (the standard designation for new Academy graduates completing their mandatory years of service), HERMES suits, and artificial day/night cycles on Ganymede Station.

Nights on Ganymede Station were beautiful, in that they were unapologetically artificial. The moon was tidally locked, its week-long spin synchronous with the rotation of Jupiter, and the Jovian Giant was a constant backdrop to the tall, glittering buildings of the station city. Galaxy Frontiers’ response to the lack of a day-night cycle was simple but brilliant -- a gradual darkening of the stasis field that regulated the station’s atmosphere. The effect was on a timer, slowly filtering the glaring light, first into soothing blues and purples and then into cool dark night, the field shimmering overhead to allow pinpricks of warm light like stars to dapple the city streets, lending gentle visibility to areas not bathed in streetlights and neon.

Arguably, a night like this wasn’t one to waste away in Jupiter Academy’s gym, but on Ganymede Station every night was like this, and the captivating skies and bustling nightlife weren’t an exception or an excuse. After a day spent in boardrooms and meetings, Friday needed to let off some steam, and her other options at this point were to see what trouble she could get into in the city, or kick back with Raze while he pretended not to understand the corporate machinations of Red Storm, plying details and secrets from her with drinks and gentle proddings from what she had come to call his “brain fingers.” She didn’t usually mind it, and there was a certain satisfaction in seeing her protege becoming so adept, but there were moments when his ambition frightened her, if only because of how tightly it mirrored her own.

Red Storm’s training facilities took up their own wing of the Academy’s sprawling campus, but Friday headed straight for the more exclusive officer’s gym. It was usually dead in the evenings, meaning she could put her own music on the sound system or just enjoy the silence without the sound of exaggerated grunting and free weights dropped from waist height by attention-seeking kids training with the Academy.

She was almost disappointed to find the lights already on, but perked up when the door slid open and the sound of rapid footsteps, punctuated by the unmistakable hiss of HERMES hydraulics, echoed through the gym’s high ceilings. Most of the padded training area had been set up with flexible bars at varying heights, which could be adjusted to serve as hurdles or uneven bars. Friday had seen Roadrunner use this setup before, usually to calibrate the Springheel jump stilts in his own equipment or, as seemed to be the case now, to familiarize himself with a new model of the exoskeleton.

It was easy to forget, since Friday’s mission tactics tended to utilize Roadrunner’s skills at a distance as far from herself as possible, that the little fucker used to be an acrobat. She didn’t see much of him in the field, and even when she did the urgency of completing a mission usually stifled the opportunity for finesse and flourishes. In the gym, though, with unlimited time and no pressure, watching him move was a goddamn delight. The HERMES gear lent him an unreal amount of speed, and his reaction time had grown to be inhumanly fast to keep up. Blink, and you’d miss him launching from one end of the gym, picking up momentum almost instantaneously to haul himself over and under the makeshift course of horizontal bars, pausing at one or two to spin into a flawless Gienger or Tkatchev just because he could, just because he thought no one was watching.

It was almost as enjoyable to watch him at rest, crouched at the landing with sweat dripping down his bared torso, slicking unruly swirls of inky black hair that had escaped from their messy ponytail to the darkened-copper skin of his back and shoulders, the cooling apparatus of the HERMES system kicking in and venting heat with a quiet hiss. Without the other Strikers towering over him it was easy to see that the kid was a powerhouse, a precision athlete, and disgustingly good-looking, and despite his carefully-constructed persona of openness and pseudo-spirituality he would gleefully let each one of those things go straight to his head if left unchecked.

“Yo, fancypants, where the fuck is Mastodon?”

He skidded to a halt at that, staggering backwards as the exoskeleton’s auto-stabilization kicked in to keep him upright, then his whole face lit up in that sickening easy grin of his when he noticed Friday, arms crossed and frowning, standing at the edge of the mat.

“Donnie’s on earth, boss. His sister’s having a baby! Why?”

“Because I _know_ your little ass isn’t in here, by yourself, beating the shit out of a new HERMES unit without a spotter or a physio making sure you don’t kill yourself to death trying to go full Olympian for no one.”

“Maybe I was doing it for you? Enjoy the show?”

Her frown deepened, but she crouched to toss him a water bottle from his gym bag.

“Take a break and help me wrap my hands. You’re an ocean of sweat right now, you goddamn animal.”

He laughed, taking a long pull from the water bottle before hopping off the mat to follow her to the weight room. She was tying the long part of her hair into a top-knot as she walked, and rolled her eyes as the electronic whirrs and whines that accompanied Roadrunner’s steps got closer.

“I hate the way those damn things sound.”

“Sorry, this model is too heavy for me to walk if I turn it off.”

“Really? I thought this was a newer model, why the downgrade?”

“It’s not for field use, it’s an urban patrol model. They’re trying to make them cheaper and easier to use, to market to police forces and civilian security. I’m… actually training a squad of Derechos tomorrow, so we’ll see how that goes.”

“Derechos on HERMES? You gotta be shittin’ me.” Friday shook her head, hitting the switch in the weight room and tossing her bag on an empty bench as the overhead lights clicked on one by one. “They’re gonna kill a bunch of rookies or bust up a bunch of expensive equipment or both…” Friday grinned, pulling off her jacket and the baggy t-shirt she wore over her training clothes. She stuffed them into her bag and took out her hand wraps, straddling the bench and offering them to Roadrunner. “Then again, I think I’d pay to see you trying to train Derechos to do _anything_. See how _you_ like it when some sassy little cadet thinks he’s too hot for your command.”

Roadrunner gave a short laugh from where he was crouched on the ground, unfastening the last of the straps that secured him into the rigid exoskeleton and stepping out of it with a long sigh.

“I don’t think you’re giving the new academy grads enough credit,” he said, stretching his arms above his head before dipping into a standing backbend that damn near put his head between his knees. “Or Horizon, honestly. The new model’s stiff as a board, but I think it’s good for its intended use.” He stood back up with a slow exhale, rolling his shoulders and slipping off his hand guards before joining Friday on the bench, sitting cross-legged in front of her. He took the hand-wraps from her, but put them right back down on the bench, instead pulling one of her hands towards him to brush his chalk-covered fingers over the back of it.

“I mean, it’s sturdy, powerful, you can go pretty fast with it but it doesn’t open up your stride like a field HERMES, so it’s easier to learn. No Springheel unit, and the stabilization is ridiculous, like you can’t fall down in the thing if you try.”

“So… it’s bulky, it’s loud, you can’t walk in it unless it’s powered up, you can’t do Springheel jumps, and its selling point is that it won’t fall over. Gotta be honest, it sounds like one of those old Segways but less stupid looking.”

“More or less,” Roadrunner agreed with a nod, his thumbs kneading slow circles down the back of her hand, working out the tension between thick tendons and scarred, hardened knuckles. “The idea is to reduce fatigue so they can keep them out on patrol longer, with an increase in speed for foot pursuit.” He looked up at her with a smile, dark eyes meeting hers from behind flyaway strands of messy hair, and she snorted and looked away. “Heh. Don’t be like that. What were you gonna do if I wasn’t here, anyway?”

“I can wrap my own hands, assface, it’s just less embarrassing to ask for help than for you to see me struggle. Also, stop fishing for validation. You get praise from me when you earn it.”

“Fair enough.” He dug his thumbs into her palm and she moaned before she could stop herself. “Did I earn that one?”

“You better be careful,” she warned him, though her pout had turned into more of a smirk and he laughed, drawing his fingertips along the underside of her wrist.

“So… can you extend your fingers?” Roadrunner asked after a long moment, not looking up at her, and she was grateful that he didn’t force her to avoid eye contact when she answered.

“No. Almost, but… no.”

He nodded, hooking his fingers under her own, very slightly curved ones, drawing them gently out until she bit her lip with a sharp intake of breath that told him he’d gone too far. “Sorry,” he whispered, going back to massaging her palm and fingers until the tension unwound from her shoulders.

“Why are you putting up with this, anyway?” He asked. “Horizon can fix this, and Red Storm will pay for it. Your hands are fucking wrecked, Friday, there’s no reason not to get fresh joints and reinforce everything from your fingers to your shoulders. You could punch through a brick wall, probably.”

“I don’t _need_ to punch through brick fucking walls,” Friday snapped, snatching her hand away from Roadrunner. “I need to punch _dudes_. And I can do that fine, alright?”

“Well maybe it’d be nice to be able to write a note, or tape your own hands without fucking them up even more.”

“And give up this VIP treatment?” She offered her other hand, and Roadrunner dutifully took it, though now he was the one who was pouting. “Forget about it.”

“You know,” he said, words careful and even. “Being a Luddite like Argyris, is what gets you desked like Argyris.”

Friday’s eyes narrowed, the corner of her mouth twitching down as she tried to contain what wanted to be an enraged snarl into a disapproving frown and burning glare. “That’s not why they desked her, and you know it.”

“No, but it sure as fuck didn’t save her either.” Roadrunner sighed, then raised his gaze to Friday’s, meeting her challenge. “They’re grooming you for her spot, you know. That’s why they keep pulling you in on all these conferences and shit.”

“Roadrunner,” Friday shook her head slowly. “You’re getting out of fucking line.”

“ _Fuck_ the line, boss, I’ve been worried about _you_.” He frowned, and it was a jarring thing to see on a face that smiled so easily, a severe expression that drew his lips into a thin line and carved worry and anger into his forehead, between his furrowed brows.

“The Strikers were a cutting edge squad when I joined, but it’s not anymore. You’re not paying attention to what’s happening at the academy. Santiago was a success, so outfitting injured and disabled kids with military-grade cybernetics in exchange for their service is just something the Academy _does_ now. It’s super fucked up, and it's _changing the game_. You probably didn’t graduate with a single enhanced cadet, but now I’d say they make up at least five percent of the graduates.”

“Fucking _and_?”

“Fucking _and_? I’m training twenty Derechos to use a student-model HERMES tomorrow! And they’re not the punk kids you think they are, Friday, Argyris has tightened ranks at the academy since she took over, and these cadets are _bad_ ass.”

“Fucking _and_?”

“ _And_ I don’t…” Roadrunner lowered his hands to his lap with a sigh, staring at Friday’s palm, stroking his fingers over it before lacing them with hers. “I don’t want you to get left behind, just because you think you’re better out the box than someone just as skilled, just as determined, who’s got a titanium leg up on your ass. No one else will put up with me.”

“Damn straight they won’t.” Friday smirked, raising her free hand to gently lift Roadrunner’s chin to face her. “By the way, that,” she teased, “is how you fish for validation. It’s good to know you got my back.”

She squeezed Roadrunner’s hand in hers, lifting it to her lips to brush a kiss against the back of it, and he groaned and pulled his knees to his chest, trying to stifle a laugh as he hid his face behind them.

“I’m not scared of the new tech, dumbass,” Friday said softly. “Horizon’s probably just after my blood after the whole Gaia Nova thing. As soon as one of their competitors has a similar option, I’m all over that shit.”

“Good. And I’m sorry for pushing you about it, I totally deserve your weird-ass brand of self-indulgent humiliation.” He looked up at her with a grin, lowering his legs to straddle the bench and sliding closer to her, finally picking up one of her wraps. “So what are we doing tonight? Lifting or…?”

“I was just gonna wail on a heavy bag for a while. I even brought a picture of you to tape to it, but bullying you in person is way better.”

“I can do you one better than that,” Roadrunner offered, looping the end of the rolled fabric over her thumb and wrapping it around her wrist, palm, and between her fingers with practiced ease. “I mean, if you feel like sparring.”

“With you?” Friday raised an eyebrow, then raised her hand to inspect Roadrunner’s handiwork, flexing her fingers and pulling them into a fist with a satisfied nod before offering him her other hand. “Do you… wow, I’ve known you too long to be asking you this but do you even have any unarmed combat training? I mean, outside of the Academy’s CQC?”

“Yes,” he offered simply, setting to work wrapping her other hand. “Why do you think I’m so good at this?”

“Because you’re a personal trainer?” Friday shrugged. “For real, though, what style?”

“Krav Maga.”

“Shut up!” Friday’s eyes went wide, her mouth hanging open for a startled moment. “Don’t fucking lie to me. You won’t even take a damn gun into a hostile zone, the fuck’s a punk like you doing Krav Maga?”

“To give me an option if I get cornered. I mean, I hope so. I’ve never gotten cornered.”

“Right on. Shit, though, I wanna see your moves!” Friday grinned, hopping off the bench and aiming a light jab at each of Roadrunner’s shoulders before nodding towards the punching bags. “I’m gonna warm up for a bit. If you want to hang out and help me put my gloves on and then criticize my every move you’re more than welcome. I get the feeling you’re kinda done fancy pantsing for the night.”

She offered a hand, and he took it with a nod, stepping over the bench and following just close enough behind her to pop the strap of her sports bra.

“You know, boss,” he said, jumping back just in time to miss an elbow to the ribcage. “I _really_ gotta start charging you for my services.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Raze is gently friendzoned by an old classmate, mind-reading is kind of awkward sometimes, and Angel gets super old-school with his marksmanship studies.

Raze was still learning what was generally considered “attractive” among humans, but he was pretty sure that Calico Storm was stunning by anyone’s standards. Her thick, burnished-pewter curls were wrapped away in satin when her face filled the screen of Raze’s phone, but her eyes, the same color, lit up when she saw him, and his heart skipped a beat when her full, pink lips split into a smile. It was odd, to say the least, to see someone’s face without feeling their mind, and despite the years he’d spent on Ganymede Station Raze felt he’d never be truly accustomed to it, but Calico was the sort of person who brimmed with passion, whose every  word and gesture held so much intent and emotion that even speaking to her from a video screen felt warm.

He’d met her at the Academy, and they served on the same Derecho squad after graduating. It was one of those things that was a little uncomfortable to remember – he’d complimented her skintone (dark, and heavily freckled, mottled with clouds of creamy ivory), and she’d been offended, embarrassed, thought he was insulting her. He then told her, truthfully, that multi-coloration was considered exceptionally beautiful to his people, and she was skeptical but curious enough to ask if he’d like to get a coffee after their shift. He had no idea what coffee was, so naturally he agreed. In the same day, he learned all about vitiligo, that he hated coffee, and that he adored Calico Storm. An awkward start, but he hardly regretted it, as he’d seen much more of that lovely skin on one or two occasions since.

“Hey, Cali!”

“Hi Raze! Why you calling me so late?”

“Just seeing what you get into tonight.”

She laughed at that. “Why didn’t you call me two hours ago when I was bored as hell? The only thing I’m getting into now is directly into bed.”

“You sure you don’t want to grab a drink with me instead?”

“That sounds nice, Raze, but the part where I’d have to get my ass out of bed, redo my makeup, and put on something cute sounds like a pain in the ass.”

“We don’t gotta go to somewhere fancy,” Raze insisted, adding with a wink, “I’ll wash off my makeup if it make you feel better.”

She shook her head, covering her eyes, but couldn’t hide the way her smile brightened at his joke.

“I got an image to maintain, and so do you. Some other time, though.”

“Well, do you want me to come tuck you in, at least?”

She sighed, then smiled, but there was a sadness in her eyes that made Raze’s stomach drop.

“Not tonight, Raze.”

“Heh, alright I get it. I’ll let you sleep but, don’t be stranger, okay? I miss you.”

“Me, too. We’ll catch up soon, yeah?”

“Yeah. Sleep well!”

“You too, if you ever get around to it.”

She waved goodbye, and then she was gone, and with a sigh Raze let his phone clatter onto the glass coffee table, sinking back into the couch. It always happened this way. Academy cadets were eager and ambitious, it was part of the territory of signing up to work offworld for a company like Red Storm. They were adventurous, they were curious, and many of them were interested in Raze, but only as a novelty. As they settled into their careers, looking more for someone to come home to than someone to go out with, looking for futures, for families, Raze was always left behind.

At least he had Friday, and when he picked up his phone again to see if anyone else was doing anything interesting, her feed lit up with a new photo she’d posted from somewhere on the Academy campus.

_“Meetings all fuckin day. lettin off some steam by wailing on this nerd”_ captioned a photo of her and Roadrunner, fistbumping with wrapped hands and making exaggerated duck faces into the camera. Roadrunner’s eyes were closed, which somehow seemed to happen in almost every photo of him ever, which was a damn shame because he had just,  _really_ lovely eyes. It looked like they were in the officer’s gym, where Raze couldn’t go unless he was signed in, but he figured it might be worth it to hit up the training center. At the very least he could get some practice in at the firing range.

Raze owned a few rifles. Nothing like the impressive collections he’d seen in the homes and photo feeds of other long-range weapon specialists, but unlike Friday his specialization meant that he couldn’t just get by with standard-issue firearms. He needed guns he could get to know, become familiar with, selected with consideration to his arm, his sight, his style.

For the most part, he kept his weapons logged at the Academy. Getting a permit to carry them on the station was easy for Academy graduates, but he could never think of a reason to go through the trouble when Red Storm would keep them stored and maintained for free. There was one, however, that was a little too precious to hand over for storage. It was a hand-painted recurve bow that he made himself, which he carried unstrung in an unassuming case hefted over his shoulder as the light rail and campus shuttle carried him from his apartment building to the training center.

He texted Friday to see if she could sign him in to the officer’s gym, but when she didn’t respond within the length of one cigarette (human cigarettes sucked but, like many of his vices, were something approximating a small comfort of home), he instead headed in the direction of the firing range.

The facility was empty, save for a bored cadet working the equipment desk, who didn’t give Raze a second glance as she went through the motions of signing out one of his weapons and an ammunition block, giving a short nod and forced smile when Raze thanked her before turning her attention back to the screen of her phone. Raze noticed that instead of using the touch-screen, the cadet had haptic feedback rings like his own, operating the interface with twitches of her fingers rather than swiping the glass. He started to comment on it, but could see and feel that the kid was in no mood.

_It’s been a long day. I wish I felt like talking to you but I just fucking don’t, please just take your shit and go._

Raze didn’t need to be told twice (or, technically, once), picking up his gear and tapping his ID at one of the empty stalls. He didn’t bother clicking through any targeting options, setting up a standard session with both stationary and moving targets and raising the rifle to his shoulder. Horizon’s RS-53 Excalibur was probably his favorite weapon, its carbon-fiber barrel and high-powered scope lending it extreme accuracy, and its selective-fire mechanism switching smoothly from burst-fire or automatic for suppression fire, to semi-auto for precision takedowns.

The session went fairly well. Straight shots, clean and center-mass. Close range was a little messy but the Excalibur was better at medium and long-range anyway. It was good to see that he hadn’t gotten rusty, but it wasn’t what he was here for.

After checking to ensure that no one else was around, Raze switched the rifle to safety, setting it aside in its case and unzipping the carrying case for his bow. He stepped through it to string it (modern archers would have his ass for that, but that’s how he’d been doing it for his whole life, and when the associate at the sporting goods store tried to sell him a “bow stringer” he’d just sort of stared at him), resetting the target practice session to use custom solid-body targets before pocketing his haptic-feedback rings to put on his archery gloves. He checked one more time that no one was watching, inhaling and slowly pulling the bow to full-draw, holding for a long moment just to enjoy that familiar sensation of tension and power coiling in his back and shoulders with the stretch of the bowstring, the curve of the limbs.

“Holy shiiit, Raze, is that a war bow? That thing is huge!”

He would blame the interruption for the less-than-perfect shot that followed, glaring at the sudden intruder with an annoyed frown which fell away when he noticed it was Angel.

“Oh, it’s just you.”

“Disappointed?”

“Relieved.”

They both grinned, clasping each other’s hands in greeting and leaning into a brief half-hug, and Angel logged into the stall next to Raze’s.

“Seriously, though, what’s the deal with the bow?”

“It’s a laminated recurve I made from–”

“Hold up,  _you_ made that?”

“Yes, I could not find one of right length and draw-weight for me.”

Angel paused in unpacking his weapon, which looked like some kind of new anti-materiel pulse rifle that he really shouldn’t have been firing at an indoor range, making a big show of dusting off his hands before offering them meekly to Raze.

“Can I see it?”

Raze nodded, offering the weapon for Angel’s eager inspection.

“You  _made_ this?”  _This is gorgeous_.

Raze smiled, trying not to look too proud of a compliment that hadn’t been spoken aloud. “Yes! I mean, I didn’t scrape it out with bone knife or that kind of thing. I had the boards shipped from your homeworld – from Earth,” he corrected himself, remembering that Angel was born on the Station. “Rented shop space at the dockyard for a few weeks, used a lot of power tools. That was fun.”

“What? Why did you pay for a shop space, Raze, you could have used my studio for free.”  _Shit, he should sell these in the shop…_

“I don’t know, it was something kind of… private.”

_That’s so cute, he’s so cute…_ “Did you paint it, too?”

“Yes, do you like it?”

“Raze, it’s…” Angel shook his head, grinning. “Dude, it’s exquisite.”  _I want to see more art from his culture. How do I ask that without sounding like a creep? How do I tell him it can make him a fortune without sounding like a monster?_ “Um. If you like making these, I can sell them for you. If you want.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather keep this between us.” He looked away shyly, then met Angel’s gaze again with a sheepish little smile that he fought to keep from turning into a smirk at the way Angel’s fingers tightened on the bow as he pulled in a sharp inhale. “But I’ll make you one, if you want. I mean, I know you appreciate it as a fine weaponry, not just exotic trinket.”

“Are you serious?” Angel’s eyes went wide, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. “You’re serious. Raze, it’s cool, you don’t have to do that for me.”  _I would die of fucking happiness if you did that for me._

“Don’t worry about it. Make me some nice thing for my living room, maybe? I don’t love the paintings the decorators put up.”

“Yeah! Yeah, you got it, wow…” He turned the bow over in his hands, nervously clearing his throat. “So…”

“I’ll teach you to shoot it if you teach me to shoot that.” Raze smirked, nodding to the pulse rifle that Angel had begun unpacking when he arrived. “Unless… that’s for enhanced soldiers only?”

“Let’s just say it would definitely shatter your arm, and probably break your spine.”

“Message received,” Raze said with a solemn nod, then moved closer to Angel to position the bow in his hands, relishing a bit in the way Angel’s breath quickened when Raze’s fingers brushed against his skin. It was validating, to feel someone else’s attraction to him, even though the fantasies in Angel’s head were mostly not possible.

“Let’s start with basic form…”


End file.
